


Method, Motive, and Madness

by kgbsprite



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: (I'm not listing all their crimes unless its a trigger because i'm lazy), Alternate Universe - 1920s, Bootlegging, Drag Queens, Gang Violence, Guns, Italian Mafia, Knives, Las Vegas AU, M/M, Mafia AU, Mob Boss Bill Cipher, Older Dipper Pines, Organized Crime, People Get Killed, Period-Typical Homophobia, Prohibition, Prostitution, Rating May Change, Tags May Change, Warnings May Change, Writer Dipper Pines, cross-dressing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-13
Updated: 2020-03-30
Packaged: 2020-08-20 11:54:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20227426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kgbsprite/pseuds/kgbsprite
Summary: In the year of 1925, Dipper is a young man, recently gone to seek his fortune in the City of Sin, Las Vegas. However, when he meets a tall man in a pinstripe suit and strange colored eyes, he may get more adventure than he bargained for.(Apologies, I'm bad at summaries. It's better if you read it, and if you do, please comment, they're fuel for the soul.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Family](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5808007) by [ElektricAngel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElektricAngel/pseuds/ElektricAngel). 
**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Saturday, September 12, 1925
> 
> Las Vegas, Nevada

Dipper struggled to write as the train car rattled over the rails, shaking the paper and his hand. He gripped the pen tighter, but just as he put the tip to the paper, the train hit a bump, making scribbles all over his previous efforts. 

He growled in frustration at his previous friend, and stuffed the haphazard manuscript back into his briefcase. The attempt to write would’ve been so much easier had he taken his typewriter with him during the move, but his parents insisted he only bring the bare essentials, which meant that his old (Dipper preferred the term ‘well-loved’,) typewriter was left behind, most likely to be sold or thrown out. 

At the young age of 20, Dipper’s parents had pulled him out of college, deeming the pursuit of his dreams to get an English degree and be a writer not worth their monetary support anymore. Dipper had argued, bargained, hell, even  _ begged, _ to let him go back to college, but they refused to give in. Until he had his own money to waste, they had said, Dipper had to get a “real” job. He could work wherever the hell he wanted, but he’d better have a weekly paycheck, or else. Dipper wasn’t sure what they could threaten him with, but after a little thought, he had decided he’d rather not find out. 

So, here he was, on the cheapest train he could find to Las Vegas, or “Sin City” as it was more commonly called. The location had been Dipper’s choice, and since his parents  _ did  _ say he could work anywhere he wanted, he took the opportunity to metaphorically spit in their eye and search for work in the most vile city on the West Coast, as opposed to their small and annoyingly safe town on the edge of Oregon. Begrudgingly, his parents had agreed to give him money for the trip down, and help him pack, but Dipper had to use the little money he had earned through small side jobs and such to buy an apartment for himself. It had taken some serious research, but eventually he found a landlord willing to sell him an apartment and look after it until he got there. 

The train hit a bump, knocking Dipper’s head against the seat and causing him to cry out in pain. A few people turned their heads to glance at him, but most of the passengers were 

asleep, making him realize how much time had actually passed. They had been traveling for almost eight hours. God, Dipper’s butt hurt. 

“Attention all passengers, we are nearing our destination of Las Vegas. Please gather all personal belongings and prepare to depart. We hope you enjoy your stay.”

Slowly, the sleeping passengers woke from their slumber, and others began to grab their bags, purses and briefcases. Dipper hugged his briefcase tightly, his heart beginning to beat faster from a cocktail of emotions mixing in his chest. The fizz of excitement, the buzz of anxiety, the sweet tang of rebellion, and the promise of adventure all swirled around like addicts of jazz who’d plague the dancehalls with their riotous swinging. And as the conductor announced their arrival at the station, those feelings urged him to the opening doors with a quick step and excited twitch. 

Finally, the doors opened. He held onto his hat, clutched his case closer to his body, and looked out at the night sky lit up with man’s stars. He paused for a moment, a hint of doubt creeping up on him. 

Suddenly, a gust of wind blew by, stirring something,  _ waking _ something deep in the soul of the young man. The little hint of doubt was quickly brushed aside with the hopes of something new and exciting.

With an eager smile on his face, Dipper crossed the threshold of the train.

* * *

Bill tapped his long fingers rhythmically on the ebony table, his eyes following each of his capos as they silently filed into the room. Each pulled out their respective chair from the long table, waiting for Bill’s permission to sit. He smirked, enjoying this small gesture of the power he held over them. 

He waved his hand, and at the simple gesture, the men settled into their seats. “Evening, gentlemen. Would anyone care for some refreshments before we begin?” Bill snapped his fingers, and almost immediately a butler who had been waiting silently in the corner with a tray of glasses and a bottle of gin walked over to them. A couple of the men nodded their heads, so the butler began to walk around the table, offering a glass to each of the men. Few declined, and once everyone had been served, Bill snapped his fingers again, and the butler left, a visible tremble of his body shaking the glasses on the tray.

“Now, let’s get down to business. 8 Ball, start us off, why don’t ‘cha?”

Simone Bonucci, nicknamed “8 Ball” for his dark skin and love of the parlour game, had been a capo since before Bill had become the boss, and his experience and skill in managing illegal gambling for the crime family previously had led Bill to put him in charge of nearly all of the underground casinos that the family owned. 

“It’d be my pleasure, boss.” The man took a swig of his drink and stood up. “Our boys managed to track down that scumbag, Martinique. He’d been hiding out in some juice joint, blowing off the money he cheated out of us. After we took care of him, we persuaded the owners  to part with some of their booze, to cover the cost of what Marty had stolen from us.” 8 Ball took another drink. “Folks are so much more agreeable with a gun to their head.” 

Bill barked out a laugh. “If I had a dime for every time I’ve thought that, I’d be richer than Rockefeller.” 

8 Ball smirked. “The way business is going, you just might be, boss. If you give us the go-ahead for the raid on Wendy’s place, our joints could be the only casinos for miles around. Folks wouldn’t have any choice but to gamble at our place. I suppose they could try to quit, though I’d be fairly surprised if they could.” 

The suggestion brought a frown to Bill’s face. “Now, 8, why would we ever want to do that?” The cocky smirk 8 Ball had worn was wiped from his expression. “Wendy is a fine gal who knows how to run a business, and we’ve enjoyed a rather peaceful relationship so far. I plan on joining our businesses, this Friday in fact. I’ll be taking Kryptos and Keyhole with me to help negotiate the deal, so until you hear back from me, you won’t set foot anywhere near her.” Bill laced his fingers together and smiled coldly. “Understood?”

8 Ball clenched his jaw and said nothing, holding back his thought. And if Bill had noticed that, he too said nothing. 

“Understood, boss.” he replied with a forced smile, then promptly sat back down.

“Now we can move on. Hectorgon, report.”

The rest of the meeting continued without much difficulty, with each capo reporting their bit. Each one was in charge of a different aspect,- a different ‘business’, to put it simply- of the crime family. Just as 8 Ball managed gambling for the family, so did the others. Kryptos managed the protection of the family’s information and money, and Keyhole managed the gathering of it. Hectorgon; the manufacturing and distribution of weapons. Zanthar; extortion and general intimidation. Teeth; bootlegging. Pacifier; bribery. And finally, Pyro, who managed the family’s prositution ring. Pyro had suggested adding a new kind of service, one involving a pole and considerable lack of clothing, to which Bill agreed with a grin, patting the man on his back for his seemingly endless well of money-making ideas. 

It was Pyro who first approached him about starting the ring. The venture turned quite a profit, and after almost three months of the successful operation, Pyro tentatively came forward with a new proposition. Back then, they had only provided female prostitutes, but since men were their biggest clients, it didn’t seem to be a big deal. However, what Pyro suggested intrigued Bill. He had proposed that they hire male sex workers as well, ones who dressed like women. Bill remembered the man had begun to work up a nervous sweat as he frantically tried to explain that there might be some men who wouldn’t be able to tell the difference if the workers didn’t go through with certain acts, and that, well, perhaps, there would be some men who wouldn’t mind. Bill chuckled as he recalled Pyro’s visible panic when he had not responded immediately. The man had backtracked, trying to take back what he had said and tripping over his words, feeling that he had made a grave mistake. 

Bill had held up his hand, silencing the trembling figure. He had looked him in the eyes, his own striking yellow irises staring into Pyro’s terrified brown. Then, Bill had cracked a genuine, face-splitting smile, and said, “Why just the crossdressers? Let’s hire any queer we can get our filthy hands on.” 

Pyro’s expression shifted in a kind of confusion, then slowly mirrored Bill’s smile. An expression between two seemingly kindred spirits.

Safe to say, they trusted each other far beyond the trust they held in the family. They confided in one another.

Bill was pulled out of his memories with the sound of hushed whispers, bringing his attention back to the report. Then with a sharp nod, he dismissed them. 8 Ball looked at him with what the man might think was an invisible glare, but Bill didn’t avoid it entirely this time. He gazed pointedly back, and the capo quicken his pace towards the exit, caught off guard.

Bill sighed and looked deep into his glass.

It really wasn’t anything new. Just another day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you guys are squinting yours eyes and going, "Where's Pyronica?", no worries, she will reveal herself soon... By the way, "capo" is short for caporegime, which is basically a captain. Read here for more info: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/American_Mafia
> 
> My beta is @blackcat-midnight-thatsme on tumblr, they were really helpful when it came to editing, and if anyone else feels like getting a preview of new chapters and helping out a perfectionistic writer, contact me and I'll add you as a beta!
> 
> This was actually my first fic on AO3, so I hope it turned out okay! Thank you for reading, and please comment!


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dipper struggles to make a living in the big city.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Monday, September 14, 1925

Dipper huffed as he stomped outside, hat and briefcase in hand. This had been the third job to reject him this week. He was tired of looking for employment, and he was running out of nice clothes to wear for anymore of these meetings (To be fair, he only had one suit.) 

Despite having little to no job experience, he had thought that this whole process would be much easier than it was turning out to be. He had applied to three different newspapers for a job as a journalist or reporter, and two had rejected him without an interview. Dipper really thought he’d get this third one after they told him to come in today, but after a few minutes with a squat dwarf who made up for his height with his hair, he was told that he just wasn’t what they were looking for, and Dipper asked (very calmly he might add,) “Why?” The greasy man said, “Because, peach, we aren’t looking for some doe-eyed reuben straight out of the haystack. You outta just go on back to the little pond, fish, you ain’t cut out for city life.”

He doesn’t remember ever having the sudden urge to punch someone more than right at that time in his whole life.

A  _ thump _ drew him out of his rage-induced haze. To his right, a newspaper had just missed the garbage can, and lay fairly untouched on the ground. 

Ah, what the hell, Dipper was too broke to be ashamed of taking someone else’s used paper. 

The front mentioned something about his favorite author’s new book not selling too well, but he ignored the front page and skipped straight to the advertisements. Under an advert about some new automobile, and above one inviting the reader to Madame Zucchini’s house of fortune, sat Dipper’s possibly last chance at a decent job. He was running out of options, and he had yet to pay McGucket, his landlord. As much as he hated to admit it, the plump man was right on one account. Dipper wasn’t cut out for city life, or more accurately, city work. His own personal hell would be sitting behind a desk crunching numbers for a living, but he didn’t have the skills to work at any other job, besides perhaps being a cashier or waiter. Though to be fair, having to smile and deal with idiots for the rest of his life was personal hell #2. 

So, he donned his hat, stuffed the paper in his coat pocket, and started walking towards his last hope before his indefinite waiterhood. 

* * *

The building, located on the corner of Cannigett and Notteramen, was otherwise known as  _ The Vegas Insider _ . Though not highly renowned for its sophistication or quality material, it was nevertheless one of the most popular newspapers in Vegas. 

Some of its most-read columns included Susan’s Tips for Housewives and Other Women With Time on Their Hands, The Weekly Gossip and Trends, and The Bachelor’s Guide to Vegas Nightlife. The latter shared people, places, and passwords related to some of Sin City’s more unscrupulous activities, which somehow managed to avoid the attention of the local law enforcement. However, the column had been recently discontinued, for reasons unspecified. The columnist just stopped showing up to work one day, which led to many questions and angry letters from the readers when they didn’t get their favorite weekly column. 

The readers were getting antsy, and the gap needed to be filled, quickly.

Which, surprisingly, led to Dipper’s employment. 

* * *

He walked into the building nervously, and to be honest, a little cynically, because if he couldn’t get into those other small newspapers, how on Earth could he land a job at the biggest one in town?

At the entrance, he saw a frazzled receptionist sitting at a desk with what must have been three telephones and countless piles of paper, talking to someone on the phone while taking notes with the phone squished between her shoulder and her cheek. 

As Dipper approached her, the bags under her eyes seemed to deepen, but she gave her best company-regulation smile, and cheerily piped, “I’ll be with you in one moment sir!” then turned back to the phone. “No, not you ma’am, I was speaking to someone else. I’m sorry, yes. No, sorry, he, uh, resigned a little while ago, sorry for the inconvenience, we’re working our hardest to find another writer to pick up the column, no one’s applied so far, ma’am. I can still update your password and save it for when a writer comes in. I’m sorry but there’s really nothing I can do ma’am, I can call you back as soon as the spot is filled-” She paused for a moment, and promptly turned a shade of scarlet. “Well, there’s really no need for that kind of language. Good day ma’am.” She slammed the speaker back on the phone, and placed it back on the desk with about the same amount of grace. 

“So,” she spoke through gritted teeth, “How may I help you?”

The sudden attention laced with anger sent Dipper on a stuttering spree. 

“I, uh, um, actually came here for the, uh, the job. Yeah, th-the ad just said to come here for an, uh, in-terview, so, uh, here I am.” 

_ Wow, that was painful to listen to. Can you get any more awkward, Dipper? _

The lady blinked silently at him for a couple of seconds. She squinted, then after a moment or two, unfurrowed her brow and gaped. “Oh my god, you’re not kidding.”

And, here it comes, another speech about how he was just a country bum with no hope in the city, and how he had no idea what he was doing, Dipper thought. Time to be underestimated and sent to be a waiter. 

Then, out of the blue, she grabbed his wrist like a bear, stood and began walking him towards an elevator. 

“Wha-” “Just come with me kid.” He was yanked inside the nearest elevator while the receptionist hit the button for the sixth floor. Once the doors closed, Dipper was released from the woman’s iron grip, and he began rubbing the red mark forming around his wrist. However, his moment of reprieve was short-lived, and when she turned on her heel and shoved a finger at his chest, he yelped in surprise and mild fright. 

“Alright kid, I got three questions for you, and don’t even think about lying to me. One,” She raised her index finger. “Have you ever gone to jail?” Dipper shook his head. “Good. Let’s try to keep it that way. Two,” she raised another finger. “Do you drink, gamble, or perform any otherwise illicit behavior?” Technically that was three questions, but he wasn’t about to say that out loud. He shook his head again. “Eh, that’ll probably change. And finally, three,” She put up a third and final finger. “Can you write a decent story?” Dipper smiled a little, and nodded. In return, she put down her fingers and smiled back at him. “Then you’re alright in my book.”

Almost as if perfectly timed, the doors opened.

“Follow me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for waiting! I'm most likely going to be posting these shorter chapters so I can update more often, but that doesn't mean I'm not thinking far ahead!
> 
> Thank you to those who commented last time, and please leave a review if you'd like to read more, the encouragement really helps speed up the writing process!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bill has to take care of a customer behind on his dues.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thursday, September 17, 1925

Bill dragged the tip of the knife across the trembling man’s cheek. His matching black eyes welled up when Bill brought the point under his chin, and tears started to flow as he was forced to stare into Cipher’s yellow eyes.

“You know,” Bill sighed, “You were one of my favorites, Derryl. One of our best customers. But then,” He traced a little triangle on his victim’s cheek, “You fell behind.”

“Pl-please Cipher, I’m sorry, I-I swear I can pay you back-”

“Oh hush, we both know I’ve heard that one from you before. Three strikes are all you get, and darlin’, you’ve already swung twice.” The other mafia soldiers in the room laughed. 

Bill grinned, almost a cruel smile, before stepping behind the bound prisoner. Derryl let out a breath of relief, only to squeak in terror as he felt gloved hands on his shoulders, tightening in a painful grip.

“Now,  _ bugiardino _ , the first time this happened, we let you off easy, left you that nice little note and everything.” Ha, he remembered that ‘note.’ Kryptos helped him make that one, and decrypted, it read something like, ‘Hey, remember us? The mafia? Yeah, you owe us money, and if you’re late again, we’re gonna beat you over the head with a bat.’ Bill thought that it was very funny. 

“And you know, we don’t usually give third chances, but you were paying us so well,  _ caro _ ! Why, those extra little pennies really helped us out, and it just made my day to see you trying to make up for your mistake, so I convinced the guys to hold back a little.” A little is right. Short of bashing in his brains, Zanthar left enough injuries to put him in the hospital for a week. Bill ordered Zanthar to tell him to keep the bat, ‘cause symbolism, right? They had even scratched two Xs into the wood as a warning, as if the broken bones weren’t enough.

“But apparently, all my generosity meant nothing to you,  _ ladrino _ . So I’m sorry to say that we’ll be, how to put it subtly, huh,  _ cutting  _ ties with you from now on.” He yanked the man’s hair back, the knife resting impatiently on his neck.

Derryl’s eyes went wide as Bill increased the pressure on the weapon, as he started to draw a straight line across his neck, creeping towards his artery-

“WAIT!”

The room quieted, putting the prisoner in a deadly spotlight.

Bill met Derryl’s terrified gaze, his movements languid, his expression annoyed. “Something you’d like to say before you go, Derry?”

He gulped.

“I… can’t pay you back.”

“No shit, Sherlock.” The men laughed again.

“”N-not in money! But, I can, uh... do certain favors for you.”

Bill’s eyes narrowed. “What kind of favors are you talking about?”

Derryl lowered his eyes and turned red. “The, uh… sexual kind.”

Bill visibly stiffened, and the rest of the room seemed to be shocked into silence.

Derryl had made a mistake. And he knew it. “I mean, uh, you’ve probably never done to a guy before, but, uh, it-it’s just like a girl, I-I swear, an-and I wouldn’t tell a soul about it, n-not that I’d tell anyone, anyway, it’s just, oh god-”

“Ha, he’s a goddamn fag, fellas!” A soldier spit on the poor man’s face. In Bill’s ears, the room seemed to echo with the men’s laughter. He was dead silent.

If someone had been watching from outside, like in a movie, they would’ve heard two things above the echoing laughter.

A wet squelch.

And Bill whispering into the man’s ear.

“I’m sorry.”

… 

Bill kicked the chair over, corpse still tied in it. The noise brought the soldiers’ attention back to the center of the room, where he stood, removing his stained gloves. “Alright, you dogs, clean this mess up, and find me the nearest telephone, business is done here.” The soldiers quickly went about their business, one pulling out a large sheet, two hoisting the body onto it, and yet another dashing off to locate the household phone. 

The corpse was marked with three Xs and the Eye of Providence. Usually, Bill preferred to make the call sign himself, but tonight, he decided to leave the carving to his minions. 

“Eh, boss! The phone’s in ‘ere!” 

“Need anything else, boss?” He added, but Bill snatched the phone from the lackey. “Go help the others clean up or something, you’re done here.” Though the man was unaware of the source of Cipher’s anger, he knew better than to question it, and went to warn the other soldiers of the boss’s sudden mood shift. 

Bill dialed the rotary, tapping his foot as he was put through to the operator. 

“Hello, how may I help you tonight, sir-”

“Get me Black Cat’s Bag.” he growled through the line.

“Well, excuse me-” 

“ _ Now. _ ” he added threateningly. 

The woman hmphed, nevertheless putting him through to said business.

_ “Why on Earth was that rude man so urgent about calling a bag store?” _ the woman thought.  _ “What, did he break his briefcase on his way to some high class meeting?” _

Indeed, to an outsider, why a mafia boss would be calling such an obscure bag store would be extremely confusing. However, if you happened to be one of the business’s more  _ valued _ customers, you might be less puzzled. 

“Hello, thank you for calling Black Cat’s Ba-”

“For what disease is like Alcohol.” he recited.

“Oh, hey Boss. You want me to get Pyro for ya?” 

“Yeah, yeah, just get her up here now.”

“Yeah, you mean  _ him _ though, right?” the lackey corrected.

Bill snapped, and by God, that asshole was lucky he was on a phone call, or he’d be dead on the floor. 

“DO I SOUND LIKE I’M IN THE MOOD FOR A GODDAMN LECTURE, YOU MORON?!! PUT  _ HER _ ON THE PHONE OR SO HELP ME, I WILL CUT YOU OPEN, STUFF YOU WITH LAST WEEK’S GARBAGE , AND HANG YOU ON A  _ FUCKING _ MEAT HOOK, YOU FAT PIECE OF-”

  
“Hey Bill. Rough night?” Pyro’s voice crooned over the phone.

He was surprised he didn’t break his neck from how fast his mood turned around. “God, Pyro, it has been a fucking night.” he sighed heavily.

“Sounds like it. I was coming up the stairs when I heard you, heh, defending my honor. Poor guy’s shaking in his last season boots.” 

“God, Pyro, I’m sorry ‘bout that, it’s been a long night, and it just slipped out-”

Pyro laughed. “Ha! Don’t be sorry, that guy’s just an ass, and besides, tonight’s my performance! I’m in a good mood, and I ain’t letting anything get me down!”

Bill chuckled at Pyro’s enthusiasm. “Oh, well then, mind if I come to watch the Lady Pyronica strut her stuff?”

“Believe me, Mr. Eye of Providence, you of all people are welcome to watch me.”

Bill was grinning from ear to ear. “Alrighty then, I’ll see you at Black Cat’s in an hour, you monster.”

Pyro growled playfully, and he broke out into laughter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AAAAAAHHHHHH!!! That took way too long to get out, so sorry if I left you hanging! I'll do my best to update more frequently, which will be much easier after I finish all of these essays I've been procrastinating on... but yeah! I also updated the past chapters with the corrections that @blackcat-midnight-thatsme helped me make, so big thanks to them! I'm trying to make that chapters a little longer now, so maybe the longer you stay, the longer the chapters get... just saying! Anyhow, I hope you like the new chapter, and please leave a comment, they always make my day and fuel the writer fire! Enjoy, love ya!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dipper suffers from a bad case of writers block (like me!)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Friday, September 18, 1925

A week after Dipper was hired, he was sleeping face down on his typewriter, snoring like a chainsaw. 

“...ines? PINES!”

“AH! Yes, what, what is it?!” Dipper shot up, saluting whoever was yelling at him with blurry eyes and a croaky morning voice. 

“Calm down, Mason, it’s just me.” Dipper quickly rubbed his eyes to see the receptionist, Maggie, standing over him, hands on her hips. “I see the typewriter made a very comfortable pillow,” she snorted, poking his face, which had indents where the keys had pressed into his skin. “How late did you stay up anyway?”

“Um… would it be worrisome to say that I don’t know? I think it was somewhere in the single digits though.” he admitted guiltily. 

“Jeez, kid, been here a week and already pulling all nighters.” Maggie set down her purse and began walking to the coffee machine. “What were you even working on?”

When Dipper got the job, he was given two options. Write a new column to replace the old, abandoned one, or pick up said column where the last journalist left off. Considering the fact that Dipper was new in town and knew none of the secret hotspots that The Bachelor's Guide to Vegas Nightlife could seemingly pull out of thin air, he decided to try and write his own. However, he had caught a bad case of writer’s block, and could simply not come up with an idea. The little waste bin beside his desk was overflowing with crumpled ideas and unfinished articles, but last night, he caught a break. 

“Well, Maggie, let me introduce you to–drumroll please,” he drummed the table in fanfare, ending with a little flourish, “Bum ba da da! Dipper’s Las Vegas Guide for Newcomers and Visitors! Jazz hands!” he presented, turning the typewriter around to show off the half completed article. 

Maggie glanced down at the paper, returned her gaze to Dipper, and took a long sip of her coffee. How one person managed to look so unimpressed without moving a single facial muscle was beyond him.

Dipper’s previous pride deflated like a half inflated balloon left overnight after a party, weakly and quickly. “That bad, huh?”

She simply took another sip of her coffee.

Dipper freed his neck muscles from their nightlong strain and let his head fall onto his desk. “It was the name, wasn’t it?”

“It was the name.”

He groaned again. “When do I have to have an article?”

“Sunday.”

“What day is it?”

Maggie let her stony composure crack a little, a muffled snort escaping her. “Friday.”

“Uggggggggghhhhhhhhh. I don’t wanna be a waiter.”

And with that, the damn harpy broke, cackling at his truly unfortunate situation. She pulled up a chair, still rattling with laughter, and pushed over a cup of coffee to the poor man. “Oh, don’t you worry Dipper, I’m sure-” she snorted loudly, “I’m sure you’d make a fine waiter.” 

The future table-wiper lifted his head to glare at her. “Thanks. That helps  _ so  _ much.” he retorted sarcastically. He forced his body into a sitting position, if only to grab the offered cup and down it, burning his tongue along the way. 

Across the room, the door rattled as a large-bellied man came in, his waistline arriving before the rest of his body. Though his size was intimidating when he first met him, Dipper soon learned that he was more of a Santa Claus figure than one of those big mafiosos he had heard about. However, he was not a person to be taken lightly. He was the head editor for a reason. 

“Good morning, Ms. Rivera, Mr. Pines. Nice to see you up and at it so early!” Their boss, Charles Santoro greeted. “How’s the article going, Mason?”

Dipper sunk into his chair and stared into his coffee. Mr. Santoro cocked his brow.

“Mason.” Dipper looked up reluctantly. “How’s the article going?” He looked sternly into Dipper’s eyes.

Guess he can say goodbye to his paycheck. Dipper sighed, pulled out the half-filled paper, and handed it to Mr. Santoro.

The boss took it and started skimming the article. His brow furrowed, softened, and scrunched again as he squinted to read the words. He smiled and broke out laughing. 

Both Dipper and Maggie stared at him in confusion. 

“Ha ha! Oh! Mason, you’re- HO!” Dipper winced, assuming the comment was about his writing. “This is just, I mean. Yowza, you really are new to this ain’t ’cha?” The young writer slunk deeper into his chair. Santoro’s laughter slowly died down as he saw Dipper’s expression, realizing what the boy had thought.

“Mason, when did you leave work last night?”

The brunette’s ear started to turn red. “I… didn’t.”

He lightly kicked Dipper’s overflowing waste bin, knocking some of the crumpled up balls onto the floor. “And I’m guessing these were some of your previous efforts?”

This time, he simply nodded.

Santoro smiled kindly at him and lightly punched the younger man’s shoulder. 

“Quit looking like I just kicked your puppy, Mason. I wasn’t laughing at your skill.” 

_ Huh? _ Dipper looked up at Santoro as he was handed back his paper, and the man grinned. 

“Take a look at this after you finish your coffee, it will make more sense.”

Dipper chugged his beverage and began tearing through the words for some answer, some mista-

Oh. Oops. 

“You were just cracking me up because, well, this reads like the author stayed up till witch’s hour trying to write a Pulitzer for his first project on his first job.”

Indeed, there was probably no better description for the piece of shit in his hands, other than perhaps, a written illustration of a surreal, abstract art piece made with literal shit. Halfway through the article, in an attempt to elegantly describe what it was like to walk down Main Street at night, he had written, ‘The sounsd of they feets in shiny shooes mixed with t he gurumble of fancy shiny Model-Ts is all fine and Jake untill you here the the pop of a Chicago typewriter in the allley behind youu.’ 

He snorted. Okay, yeah, this was pretty funny to read once he’d had an ounce of rest.

“You see what I mean now, Mason?” Dipper nodded, but then realized something and despairingly sunk his head in his hands. 

“Does this mean I’m going to have to write another article, Mr. Santoro?”

The large man laughed. “God no, Mason, you are not working today. For one, you’re of no use to me on three hours of sleep, and two, since you technically worked overtime, I’m actually supposed to pay you more for that, unless I want the union on my ass. However, the company’s been having a bit of a rough one lately, and since your employment was a bit of a surprise, I am only prepared to pay you your weekly salary.”

“So,” he said, going over to unlock his office, “I am going to do something a little unorthodox.” Dipper heard the sound of a lock clicking open and some movement from inside the frosted glass office. “You,” Santoro yelled, his silhouette still shuffling around in the room, “Are taking the day off. Consider it a… research day.” 

Unorthodox indeed. At every other job he had, Dipper had never been paid for overtime, and had certainly never been ordered to take a vacation. He should definitely look into this union stuff. 

Mr. Santoro waddled out of the office with an envelope in hand. “I’ll pay you a normal weekly salary. Since you probably worked eight hours last night, we’ll just both act like you worked today and not last night. Sound good?”

Dipper had no idea what was going on, but he was pretty sure he heard the words ‘normal salary’ and ‘day off’, so he nodded dumbly and accepted the envelope. 

“Good. Now get your ass out of here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heh. Yeah. Sorry x100.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bill recalls the reason for his hangover, and Dipper meets his neighbors.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Friday, September 18, 1925

The sun shone gently through the window of Bill’s penthouse, its warm gaze rousing him from a short-lived sleep. He did not often have the pleasure of rising with the sun, but knowing that he didn’t have anything scheduled until noon, he had decided the night before to indulge himself in his purest vice.

Ugh. Just thinking about last night made his head spin. Though perhaps not the wisest decision to get roaring drunk the night before his meeting with Wendy, Bill had certainly needed it.

~

_ Bill entered the late-night luggage shop in a huff. The Black Cat’s Bag, “repairing luggage in fine couture of Italy since 1901”, was manned by an old woman with reading glasses holding a book of poetry by Edgar Allen Poe. As soon as the door swung open, the little woman took a quick look at Bill and slowly rose from her creaky seat. She hobbled over to what seemed to a large pile of suitcases next to the wall, and opened it like a door.  _

_ The blonde stalked over to the secret entrance, only to be blocked by a wrinkled arm and a stern face.  _

“Hai dimenticato il pedaggio, Bill.”

_ She pointed to her cheek, and his sour manner somewhat lifted. He gave her a light kiss on her cheek, bending down just to be able to reach her. She smiled and patted his cheek.  _ “Non fare quella faccia, mia caro. Rovinera ' il tuo bel sorriso.”

_ He grinned.  _ “Grazie,  _ Gianna _ .  _ You beautiful ladies always know best.”  _

_ Gianna laughed and shooed him down the stairs that laid behind the door. _

_ Thank the gods they were paying off the police, because no amount of passwords and concrete walls could mask the thunder of the drunken party goers that had infected the dancefloor. People of every shape, size, and color mingled, swung and drowned in the sinful croon of a saxophone, the steady tether of a bass, and brazen shouts of a trumpet. Women in suits danced alongside men in heels, and darkened corners embraced pairs of men and pairs of women softly gazing into their lover’s eyes, and others clinging to the lips of their partners like they were going off to war.  _

_ It was their haven. _

_ As Bill walked across the floor, people awkwardly tried to shuffle out of his way, which proved to be a challenge in such a populated room. Thursday was the Black Cat’s night for their female impersonators, and while some came just to gawk and stare, the show was truly the main attraction. In fact, it was the reason Bill was here. _

_ Once he made his way through the crowd, he slipped behind a little red curtain next to the stage, bumping into a blushing man on the way out, who was mumbling something about the bathroom.  _

_ Inside lay his performing ladies for the night, filling their braziers, fixing their wigs, and donning their makeup. One of the queens noticed him entering the room, and shouted to the others, “Hey girls! Look who’s here!” _

_ Bill was greeted with various shrieks of excitement as he was put into the spotlight, and each individually began to address him and ask questions. _

_ “Great to see you again, Mr. Cipher!” _

_ “Finally decided to join us, have you?” _

_ “We’ve missed you, Bill!” _

_ “Are you staying to watch tonight, sir?” _

_ “Girls, girls, please there’s enough of me to go around!” Bill joked, earning a laugh from the room,“I will be staying to watch the show in fact, so you better give me your best show, alright?” _

_ A round of cheers was made, and Bill laughed. Beside him stood a door with a star on the outside. He turned the knob and pushed into the small private room. _

_ “Why, Bill, don’t you know it’s rude to walk in on a lady dressing?” _

_ Indeed, Bill had walked in on a lady (for truly, that’s what Pyro was inside- a woman) putting on her clothes, if they could even be called that. Pyro was struggling to lace up the backside of a silk corset, colored a dark shade of expensive pink. Bill walked over to her and grabbed the strings, lacing up the back like Pyro had taught him before.  _

_ “My deepest apologies, madam, whatever can I do to make it up to you?”  _

_ Pyro grinned. “Well, you can lose the madam, for one. I may be a woman, but I am no lady.” she giggled. “And perhaps, Bill, once you quit fooling around back there, you could grab my shoes from over there.”  _

_ She swatted Bill’s wandering hands away, gesturing over to a pair of ridiculously tall heels covered with hot pink glitter. In return, Bill playfully slapped her rear and walked to go grab them. _

_ “You don’t tell me what to do, Miss Pyronica.” He handed her the shoes.  _

_ “Now go out there and give me a show.” _

~

Bill rubbed his eyes, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. He stared out the window at the skyline silhouetted against the sunrise, colored with blood-red streaks. And there he was again, thinking about his latest victim. 

Bill never felt guilt. He made sure of it. Any hint of regret, he drowned in alcohol, sex, or some other vice. If he detected a single speck of sorrow, he would sweep it away, dousing the ember with anger. God knows how much of that he had in store. 

So no, Bill did not feel guilty for killing the man. Even though his mind couldn’t stop imagining himself in the man’s shoes, pleading for mercy, so desperate that he would reveal his greatest secret, just for a chance at living. Only to be spat on and laughed at, his last moments of dignity torn from him, simply because he made an offer that, had he been a woman, may have saved his life. 

And no, when he saw the front page of the newspaper that had been slipped under his door, he did not flinch at the sight of the man’s corpse. The headline “Marked Body Found In Sewer; Cipher Family’s Work?” did not make him tear off the page and rip it into pieces.

And make no mistake, he was not thankful when it was time to go to the meeting, because it was so much easier to keep the mask up around the others. His hands did not tremble as he put on his eyepatch, hiding an incident he would never speak of.

Because Bill Cipher did not feel guilt. 

~

It proved to be a truly Herculean task to not fall asleep in the taxi ride to his apartment, but Dipper managed it, barely. The coffee from the office that morning only lasted him so long, and by the time he got to his room on the third floor, he was dead on his feet. He only had to reach his bed before he fell face first onto the soft covers and slept for three hours.

He was awoken by the sound of girly giggling outside his door, and a quick, but soft knock. He was still bleary-eyed from sleep, and his mind had not yet returned from Dreamland. Though he was curious about the knock, his bed’s tempting pull was far stronger. But just as he rolled over on his side to go back to sleep, another, far louder knock came. So loud and strong, Dipper heard wood splintering. Frightened, he sat up, and in his haste, fell onto the floor with a  _ thump _ . 

Dipper’s previously sleepy mind was now awake with adrenaline, and was running through all the possible things that waited behind that door. Was it McGucket? The police?  _ The mafia?! _ As he stumbled hastily toward the door, his panic only grew. Who did he piss off? Oh god, was it the taxi driver?? Was he a part of the mafia and going to kill Dipper for not tipping well enough or something? What if Dipper broke some law that he didn’t think about in his exhaustion, or completely blacked out and did something embarrassing like completely stripping in the stree-

As his internal monologue continued to spiral, his hand had already reached the knob, and pulled open the door. Oh well. If he died, he died.

Thankfully, what awaited Dipper had not crossed his mind. Two young women stood there, one petite and demure, and the other anything but. The three stood there for a few moments in silence, simply staring at each other, though each for differing reasons. 

The smaller woman broke the silence first. “Um, you wouldn’t happen to own this apartment, would you, sir?”

Dipper was confused. He didn’t seem to recall either of the women, and his brain was too addled with fading adrenaline and still present exhaustion to make a coherent thought. So, he stood there, staring like a fish with his mouth barely open. What a view the girls must have had.

“Hey there bum, my friend asked you a question.” the giantess spoke, with an extremely intimidating and sex- er,  _ deep _ , voice. It snapped him out of his stupor and brought him to attention of his extreme rudeness. He may have been from the country, but he was still a gentleman, dammit.

“Oh, um, excuse me for my horrible manners, ladies, you caught me half-asleep. Uh, yes, I live here, what can I do for you?” He straightened and retucked the crumpled shirt he had fallen asleep in and moved a fallen suspender back onto his shoulder. Gosh, he was practically indecent with how messy his appearance was.

The first woman smiled, losing crinkles of worry that had been formed on her brow. The second still wore a small scowl and somewhat suspicious look, but was looking up and down Dipper with a hint of interest. 

“Oh, that’s great! I mean, um, we have a, a sort of, well, message to pass along!” the small one said, almost bashfully.

Was she nervous about something? Dipper hoped he wasn’t scaring her, poor thing. “Well, um, that’s awfully kind of you. What would the message be?” he tried to ask gently.

It seemed like she zoned out for a moment, before her giant friend snapped her fingers in front of the smaller’s face. She focused again and blushed, replying with much embarrassment. 

“Um, Mr. McGucket wanted me to tell you that your, um, rent is due, and that he expects it by the end of today. And, uh, that’s it.”

“That’s it?”

She nodded. So, Dipper nodded back, though certainly not because he understood what was going on. The large woman looked between them, and then groaned. 

“You two are disasters. Here.” The woman grabbed Dipper’s wrist with strength that made his bones pop, then grabbed the other woman’s hand, and put them together. 

“Repeat after me, Candy: ‘Hi there, neighbor, my name is Candy, and this is my friend Grenda. What’s your name?” Grenda, apparently, shook their hands up and down, and the two victims winced with her force. 

“Uhh, hi there, um neighbor, my name is, uhh…”

Grenda getting visibly impatient. “Ah, nevermind.” She let go of the two’s hands, much to their relief, but then grabbed Dipper’s hand once again. 

“I’m Grenda, this is Candy, we’re your neighbors, a door or two down. What’s your name?”

He was almost too scared to stutter. “Dipper. Uh, Pines.”

“Nice to meet you, Dipper. The two of us are going out on the town tonight, and since you’re new and Candy thinks you’re cute, we wanted to invite you to join us. If you’re available, that is.” Candy immediately turned beet red and hid behind her hands, while Dipper wondered if they let women into the mafia nowadays, with the glare he was getting from Grenda. 

However, her invitation struck his curiosity. He hadn’t explored much of the city, not with a guide anyway, and if the two were natives, then they might know a secret or two about Vegas that might inspire him to write his article. 

“Yeah, I think I’m available. But, uh, where would we be going?” he asked, now wide-awake and invested. 

Now, Grenda smiled wide. “There’s a dance hall of sorts, and a glass of giggle water for you, that is if you’re not no stool-pigeon.”

“S-stool-pigeon?” Dipper asked, still not familiar with the city language. 

“You plan on telling the cops about people drinking, having a good time?”

“What?! No, no, h-horsefeathers! People can do whatever, i-it’s all fine and jake with me.” Dipper laughed nervously. So it was a speakeasy? He had to admit, he’s never had alcohol before, besides a sip or two on a dare at college, or on Thanksgiving when he was young. But, perhaps… 

Well, Mr. Santoro did say it was a research day. 

“So? Will you be joining us?”

Perhaps he could learn a thing or two from Sin City.

“I’d love to, ladies.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HOLY SHIT!!! 2000 WORDS!!! THATS A NEW PHUCKING RECORD BITCHES!! ANYWAY. 
> 
> I hope you guys like the chapter, I think I have a tendency to focus on things that don't really matter, so I get to the plot reeeeeeeeaaaaalllly slow, but I promise the plot is there/will be there!! Thank you for your perseverance, the quarantine has given and most likely will give me a lot of time for writing, so I very much appreciate your patience during this time!


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